Star Light, Star Bright
by blink-once-4-Yes
Summary: Lydia is completely ordinary, and always has been. But she loves the daily routines of her small town. When the extraordinarily irritating Colin Munroe steals her away, how will this bookworm react to becoming a red-eyed monster? OCs, set after Eclipse.


. . .

The gray, autumn day was turning over to a thick cover of menacing clouds as I pulled into the town library**, **ten minutes late for work. And of course, on the one day it might rain, I had forgotten an umbrella. So very typical.

I hurriedly pushed the bridge of my glasses up my nose (they'd been slipping again), and adjusted the name tag on my chest. It announced in bright, happy letters to the world (because I'm so sure the world wanted to know) that I was _Lydia Thomas_, and that I worked at the _library_… Most would have found work here dull and monotonous, but there was something poetic about coming to work at the haven of my childhood. Or, at the very least, deeply and terribly ironic. But it was ironic and full of cookies. And that made up for it in every way.

As I was slamming the car door shut, with an echo-y "_wham"_,in the nearly empty parking lot, lightening sizzled and burned somewhere out to the west, and I caught it's image out of the corner of my eye. Like the kid from Poltergeist, I always counted after lightening, to know how many miles away it struck. I began steadily ticking off the seconds:

One.

Two.

Thr-**  
**

A dull rumble shook the sky itself, and left my feet numb from the vibrations. I jogged a bit to the safety of the overhang on the front door just as the sky made up its mind to spit on me. A dozen or so raindrops freckled the pavement, and I looked up from my feet just in time to avoid crashing into what looked like a hobo, judging by the tattered, mud-spattered clothing. I veered away, sharply to the right, and ended up tripping over either my own two feet, or a crack in the pavement (or a combination of the two). Perfect. Sprawled over the pavement is exactly how I wanted to start my day.

As I hurriedly took stock to check that nothing was scraped or scratched, a chuckle sounded to my left. The chuckle was very male, deep**,** and full of mirth. But what surprised me is that it sounded much younger than I expected. A teenager, maybe. Great, the teenage hobo runaway hanging in front of the library was laughing at my expense.

"Need a hand up there, miss?" he asked rather innocently, as if he hadn't just been laughing at the pain of another person (which he had caused). I seethed privately, but nodded. When a very white hand descended into my field of view, I reached up for it, and looked into the hobo's face, preparing to give him a thank you, when the words died a long, slow death on my lips. Oh, merciful heavens. He was an _angel _hobo runaway.

He was completely and utterly beautiful. I didn't care that boys weren't usually described like that. It was true. Beautiful was the only word that entered my frazzled mind. His face was shaped in perfect, classical proportions, with full cheekbones and a strong chin. Shaggy, sandy-blond hair capped his head, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, dimpling one cheek. His skin was a pure, snowy white, and delicate black sunglasses shaded his eyes, though it was a gloomy day and beginning to rain in earnest. This must all be a cosmic joke, I thought feverishly to myself. This isn't happening. I'm lying in a coma somewhere, and my brain is making up a story to keep me entertained, and thank you thank you thank you, brain, for sending me the angel hobo runaway, I'll fantasize about him always…

By this time in my mind-ramble, the boy (Man, perhaps. He looked maybe a few years older than me…) had slowly gotten me to my feet, with absolutely no help from me. I'm sorry to say I wobbled a bit.

"Are you alright? All limbs intact?" he joked in a smooth voice, mild amusement and mild concern fighting for dominance on his face. Amusement won, and I remembered my previous irritation at him. It's amazing how quickly it resurfaced.

I snatched my arm back from his cold grip, "I was," I said, emphasizing the last part. "Until you stepped in front of me. You should watch where you walk, you know."

"I do believe you have this backward," he countered with a grin. "I am merely an innocent bystander, and _you _plowed into _me_. Nearly. And I still did not hear thanks for helping you up…" His eyes held an expression of mock hurt.

"Thanks."

"You're very welcome, Miss Lydia Thomas."

When I looked confusedly in his direction, he gestured toward the jaunty nametag adorning my sweater. Oh. There was a slight awkward pause, and I used it to dust off my jeans, mind racing for something, anything, to say. My eyes widened as he spoke again.

"My name is Colin, by the way. Colin Munroe. Rescuing would-be attackers from the ground since…well, forever."

Even though he was a gorgeous, teenaged angel-hobo-runaway, and my brain was melting just from being within a few feet of his presence, I was fast getting tired of his snark. I turned my feet to leave, even though they protested this action with all their might, and addressed Colin in a somewhat snippier tone than I usually used around other people (usually, I was a shy, shy girl. How was I being this brave?).

"This has been truly fun, but I'm late for work. Please see to it that you don't damage library patrons."

"Wait…," he looked confused for a moment, "you work here?"

I pointed to the nametag he had noticed earlier, and raised an eyebrow. He fought to keep the"D'oh!" expression off his face, and didn't succeed.

"Well," he gusted a sigh, "Have fun at work. I have to get through this rain." We both looked at the same time to the drops pouring relentlessly around us, safe under the overhang. "See you around, Lyds."

I turned my head quickly back in his direction to protest the use of a nickname/offer him an umbrella (though I had none for myself). I'm not sure which I would have said, and I'd never know. Where he had been standing literally ten seconds ago was a vacated spot, completely void of any habitation. A flash of goosebumps that had nothing to do with the gusty, rain-chilled air blowing over me raced down my frame. I really must be in a coma somewhere, I thought to myself worriedly. My mind was playing tricks on me.

The rest of the day was as normal as humanly possible. Nothing went wrong, nothing was put on the wrong shelf, and no one accidentally walked out without checking out their books. But my mind was completely elsewhere, on the mysterious and thoroughly irritating Colin Munroe. I would see him in the shadows of the old building, or standing by the ancient computer, but when I really looked, he was not there. Once my shift ended, I raced to the overhang, delighted to find it was not raining anymore, but utterly disappointed that my angel-hobo-runaway was not there.

He was a figment of my imagination, I decided. Just a figment.

. . .


End file.
